Especially on Sundays
by Laura x Tennant
Summary: He loves her every time she's not looking, and every time she is. Oh, he loves her in each season and month and millennium and moment - but it doesn't make the situation simple. No. Not simple at all. Part 2 up now x
1. Chapter 1

**Especially on Sundays**

He thinks that, maybe, sort of, kind of, perhaps definitely maybe...

He's loved her from the beginning.

Or maybe that's just being sappy.

Which will not do, obviously. Because Time Lords didn't get _sappy._ What a ridiculous idea.

Thus, he concludes, it must be true. A universal fact, if you will:

_He fell in love with her far too quickly._

Well, the most astounding fact is that he's fallen in love at all, let alone the timing of it. Time Lords didn't do that either, really. Not like this. Not this much. Not this terrifying, brilliant, overwhelming emotion that makes him just _need_ her by his side every single moment of the day. Not this human - not to mention undignified and far, far too _young - _feeling of butterflies in his stomach when she says his name, or the sensation that tingles his hand when she grabs it and holds on tight. No, no. They could never have imagined this, let alone let themselves feel it.

He's alone now, in terms of his race, his species, his friends, his family, his planet...all gone, but him.

So, right, here's a question or two for you. Now, is it strange, the fact that he hasn't felt so alive, so happy, so _together, _since...well, ever...?

Or is it just her? And is it just love?

He wonders that if he'd met her before the War, would he have asked a second time?

He only has to see her smile to think, definitely, _yes. _For time and age and loss and fire on his part, all that's happened...it doesn't make her any more brilliant in his eyes. She just _is_. It's inherent, in her, always has been. He loves her, but it's nothing to do with the actual pain he felt before he met her, it's the simple fact that she's her and she can numb it by her very existence in his life. More than that. _Stop _it. Stop the pain. And if the pain hadn't been there for her to heal, then maybe he'd be less reluctant to let himself tell her how much she means to him. It's backward and silly, but he honestly believes that because, through all this, how she's the light that lit up his dark soul, he doesn't deserve her.

Now, if he'd been fine and dandy and merry and - why yes, still lonely (even _before.) _Oh, he's always been lonely. A lonely life, this was. He just hadn't previously known that the reason it was lonely was because _she _wasn't there, an extension of his hand and an imprint – no, wait, not just an imprint: a massive great identification code

_Rose's_

on his hearts. Well anyway, if he had met her without the War leaving his armour blackened and his mind tainted, then maybe, just maybe, he'd've let her love him back.

As it is, he can't do that. Oh, he'd love to. Of course he would. But he can't, not really, because he cannot pretend that he's right for her, even if – though, of course, he still wouldn't've been _right _for her, not really; he'd've still been centuries older than her, for Rassilon's sake – but _still, _even if he could've swept her away in an impossible timeline of before and impulsively, joyously, excitedly – for this had yet to happen to him, and of course, he is a curious man who enjoys experiencing new things - let love take its course.

He can't let her love him now, though, because it's so unfair.

Unfair.

That's what he's learnt, you see; because of the War.

It's changed his perception of things.

Before - he'd never felt like he needed a relationship, so to speak, because he'd never known what he'd been missing, so to speak. It wasn't so much that he was consciously holding that side of things back, or restricting himself from having that sort of thing part of everyday life, or following Time Lord rules or anything like that; he was a_ renegade_, after all.

He just never really thought of it. Or rather, he'd never met her, who made him think of it. Companions, good friends, no, _brilliant_ friends – they came into his life for a short spell and he cared for them, but before too long they would leave him, and well, he's not ashamed to say that it upset him when that happened, because of course it did; having wonderful times with friends then abruptly losing them, for whichever reason, is something he'll never want to get used to, and it hurts, it does; saying goodbye. But he had to move on, and find new fantastic people to befriend and show the universe to.

(Not getting _too _attached, for history naturally repeated itself in this case, and he knew he'd be saying goodbye to another far too soon.)

Never did it cross his mind, though, that one day, he'd fall in love with one and she'd become someone entirely impossible to leave

(or be left by, so far, stubborn as she is, and thank heavens for it.)

Someone who he cannot, actually – and, now here's a confession – someone he _cannot imagine life without_, now she's here.

Someone who simply became his entire _world_. Replacing his world of old

(the one he'd lost to a war)

in such a terrifying, beautiful way that it made him feel both guilty and wonderful all at once.

Anyway, back to the point – we were speaking of _before, _after all -

(now, he wonders, when he says before, does he mean before the War, or does he mean before _her?)_

- he never stays in the same place for long, which would also prove a difficult element in constructing a proper, stable relationship with things like settling down and – eugh, this word – _mortgages._

Her, though...

She's made for this life, he knows that. She'll stay forever if she can

(and _oh, _how he wants her to)

and he has no doubt in his mind that she is, for lack of a better phrase, his soul mate. He finds it hard to believe that she'd ever give this life up, and so, well. Perhaps settling down would never have been a problem. He knows how much she sees the TARDIS as home, now, after all.

_However._

Now - the War, it's showed him how unfair the universe can really be.

And even a younger, less emotionally-abused him may have tried to push his love for her away and lock it up in his mind, just like he has done, but he certainly wouldn't've stayed that way. Not for long. Not with her being her, and him, with these feelings -

so different from anything he's felt before, maybe he'd have been naive enough to think, despite all the losses of friends in the past, it – him and her - was _meant to be. Nothing would take her away. They could have forever. It could work._

He knows now that's not true. He knows as much as he wants it to be true, they – him and her, her and him – they can't be _meant to be, _otherwise, surely, their significantly different lifespans would miraculously match up. People who are _meant to be _together

(i.e. the people of fairytales, a concept so far removed from his life, from his perspective, anyway, that it is ridiculous to ever strive for)

live so happily ever after.

And everything's a risk. Everywhere they go – _anything _could take her from him. Anything, anywhere, natural or moral evil, illness or death or separation

(it's all as bad as each other.

Death is separation is death.

To not have her with him, even if she was, somehow, still alive; that would be just as traumatic,

just as hard to live with, just as unlucky and unfair as death itself)

could take her away from him.

And that scares him to his very core.

Simply put, they cannot have forever together. It cannot work. It is too hard, too unlucky, too unfair, and he_ shouldn't_ have fallen in love with her, because ever since he did, he cannot think of anything but how much he _wants her to stay for the rest of his life. _Not just the whole of her life, but his too.

And that's impossible, and that's why he can't let her love him back, because if he did, he isn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from kissing her, which would, inevitably, set off a chain reaction of other things he shouldn't do, and before he'd know it he'd be left alone again, officially broken-hearted, officially alone, while she'd be gone, torn from him by the stupid, unfair, crazy, _horrible _universe, lost to him but for memories until the end of his days...

_Oh, why did he fall in love with her?_

He loved her in a _basement._ He loved her in her flat. He loved her walking down the street. Her loved her in a bloody _chip shop. _He loved her across a table, when she trusted him, and said, _do it. _He loved her under frozen waves. He loved her when he almost lost her to his greatest enemy. He loved her in the midst of bombs and dancing and music and meeting a certain Captain. He loved her in Japan. He loved her when he almost lost her to his greatest enemy _again._ He loved her when she came back, and when she glowed golden, and when he kissed her, and when he killed himself in the process.

_He loved her all those moments and every moment in between. He loved her though he shouldn't've._

And what's wrong, and yet immutable, immovable, undeniable, is, _he still does_. He's changed his face, his whole body, his personality, his voice.

But nothing, ever – certainly not regeneration and not even proper death - could stop him loving her. His feelings have not change. Or at least, they have not lessened. He rather thinks he loves her more and more each moment he spends with her.

(He loves her every time she's not looking, and every time she is.)

And he loves how she makes him keep track of time in human terms now; there's a clock in his room so that he can let his human get her eight hours sleep, and there's a calender on the kitchen wall. She thinks it's so they can work out frequent-but-not-too-frequent visits to her Mum and keep track of her timeline in a more linear fashion, just to make things a little easier. And avoid the dreaded _paradox._

(For him, the clock and the calender portray a love that lasts 'round the clock and all year long.

And those different days - monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, sunday - they all have relevance, they all have significant events occuring on them, their little routines that he still finds so exciting.

And of course, there's her birthday in April, and other, less important, celebratory days in other months that he must always, always remember. Like Christmas. Can't miss Christmas.)

_He loves her in the mornings._

When he goes into her room without knocking and she doesn't mind, for she's still snoring softly and curled up entangled in warm duvet and plush pillows. And then she feels the dip in the mattress as he sits on her bed by her feet, so she raises her head a little, her hair masking her face but he knows what the expression will be when she brushes her blonde, messy locks aside; brow somewhat furrowed, eyes still half-closed, mouth parted but slightly pouting, and she mumbles, _umph _– yawns, and then pleads -_ Five more minutes?_ And he makes her laugh with a witty comment and holds out her mug of tea, and she wakes herself up a bit, leaning back on her elbow and bringing the hot beverage to her mouth, and with her other hand, she absentmindedly scratches her bare stomach where her vest top has ridden up in her restlessness.

And he sits there, watching her as she rubs her eyes, endearingly young and sleepy and beautiful, and as he sips his own drink to hide his admiring smile, he thinks about how much he adores her.

Thinks about how nice it would be to tell her that, but doesn't do so, because he can't.

_He loves her during breakfast._

When, in perfect synchronisation, they make toast with marmalade or maybe waffles with syrup or pancakes with lemon juice, or maybe all three; and the kettle is on and its boiling, ready for him to bring their mugs to the counter just as she spoons out the sugar

(two for her – she's sweet enough; four for him – she's making him cut down)

and then he's opening the fridge with one hand, as he checks on the toast/waffles/pancakes, for her to retrieve the milk, and he closes it for her too. And when she pours it in, splashing some over the rims of the mugs - because it's still early, and she's still a little sleepy, and she's still a bit clumsy, even in womanhood - he's there with the dishcloth, wiping up her mess without looking as he puts their food onto the plates she's taking out of the cupboard simultaneously.

And then he picks up their plates, tilts his head to shut the cupboard door with it; she puts the milk away and picks up their mugs on the way to sit down opposite him at the little, old battered table in the corner of the galley. And the way she looks, tired but with bright, excited eyes filled with youth and anticipation; the way their knees accidently bump under the table and stay in contact throughout their morning meal; the way she steals the rest of his toast/waffles/pancakes when he's midway through a lecture about their itinerary for the day...

...he wonders if this will ever get boring, or pointless, or rubbish, or simply too domestic.

She grins at him mischievously, tongue caught between her teeth, teasing, tempting, delicious and _her, _and he asks himself why ever he wondered that.

(There's nothing boring or pointless or rubbish or too domestic about her, and never could there be.)

Incidentally, he loves this; their little breakfast ritual, beginning everyday of their life together in this way. Tea and toast and smiles and jokes and meaningful looks that are pretended to be ignored.

It almost feels too good to be true -

(and that's likely because it is, for all good things come to an end, after all. So they say.)

_He loves her in the afternoons._

When they are running, _running _so fast that their hearts are racing in tandem and he can feel the pulse in her thumb throb against his as he holds her hand so tightly

(and he wonders that if he felt her heartbeat chest-to-chest, would he ever be able to tear himself away?)

And it doesn't matter the reason; whether it's from aliens or _to_ aliens or simply for the sake of being _alive and racing down the biggest hill they can find_

(funny, how even when trying to win a race, even when exercising that competitive nature of his...

...he can't quite let go of her hand to run solo)

and the fact is, it's tremendously fun and the adrenaline's pumping and when they stop, panting, whether at the bottom of a big hill or hiding in a cupboard or safe back behind the TARDIS doors, he absentmindedly thinks –

_maybe she's so high on life that she'll kiss me, this time _

_– _and when she doesn't, he kicks himself, and remembers it's not allowed anyway.

_He loves her in the evenings._

When they play games or watch films or read books or just chat; together and content in their sanctuary of the library, her on her bean bag and him in his armchair

(and yet by the end of the evening, with bags of chips in their laps and bottles of drink in their hands after a quick nip back to Earth or Other, they've moved to their comfy sofa; his arm is wrapped around her shoulder and she's snuggled into his side and everything's so cosy and lovely that for a second, he almost imagines they are _normal and together and as in love as any couple.)_

It's when he hears her breath hitch at his fingers lightly stroking her forearm that he realises that _they are not._

_And that they will not_

_get that chance._

(That beautiful chance of the life and adventure he can never have.)

And even though her heart's picked up pace and even though he doesn't stop his touch

(he can't physically stop; his hand is possessed. Always loved that hand, he has; his fighting hand, still fighting for what he can't have, hoping his brain won't notice what his hearts are commanding it to do)

nothing is spoken, no words of protest but equally no words of assent.

No words of love, for he cannot utter them and still maintain the fragile distance hanging between them even as they are pressed together too closely for _just this, just friends._

Words are all, and while they are not present, _this doesn't mean a thing –_

- except that it does, and they both know so; reluctantly, he's now acknowledged that it's impossible to hide it from his eyes every time he looks at her, so he is sure she knows.

So, hang on.

Maybe, if she knows, then this is all senseless, all this restraining...

Maybe, if she knows anyway, then it's too late to stop her loving him back...

Maybe she's already just as in love with him as he is with her.

He cannot deny that the thought warms his hearts and makes him smile stupidly happily; even though he knows that still, nothing can come of it.

_He loves her in the deep, dark night._

When he carries her sleeping form to her bedroom, lays her down on her bed, and when she opens her eyes and flashes him a sleepy smile, her face so close _so close _to his, he has to retreat quickly out of her door before he kisses her goodnight _like any normal man could kiss goodnight the woman he loves._

Inhaling and exhaling heavily and rapidly, leaning against the corridor wall, he stops breathing altogether when through the crack in her door

(he forgets to shut it, as usual, when will he learn? It's just, he can't bear to close a door between them as he walks away from her)

he hears her footsteps pad back and forth across her room as she gets undressed. Clothing hits the floor with a gentle thud. There's a slight click and it's her bra undoing, and that really shouldn't make him slide down the wall to sit on the floor but it does. And then there's taps running in her ensuite bathroom and he swallows thickly and thinks, _it's too late for a bath and she's far too tired; what if she falls asleep and – and – and drowns, or something?_

He stays there and listens to her softly singing as she bathes, and waits for her to get safely out and safely dressed for bed and safely _in _bed, before he's satisfied she's safely safe, and leaves for a cold shower and cold, empty bed, himself.

_He loves her Monday to Friday._

When he takes her to different planets and starships and observation decks and satellites and moons and stars. When he takes her to meet people from the history books, on her planet and others, and when they adventure in all sorts of times and places, experiencing every culture they can weave themselves into.

The beginning the middle the end of things and it's all beautiful

(except when it isn't, and there's death, but that's rare, now - he tries to avoid it as much as he can. Who knows how long he has with her? He doesn't want her remembering a life full of watching destruction at every corner, so he takes her everywhere she's least likely to get hurt; emotionally or physically.)

And time and space, it's all her oyster, and he'll take her anywhere she wants to go.

Sometimes their days are peaceful, and they explore, no problems. Most times they run into at least a _little _trouble, but she loves it as much as he does, and they escape it brilliantly like always.

He truly _adores _the way she can only stay mad at him for about half an hour when he gets them arrested; he's awesome at magic tricks and card games, after all, and once he brings out his impressiveness he keeps her entertained far longer than a girl should be, sitting uncomfortably on the dank, dingy prison cell floor of planet this that or the other.

_He loves her at the weekends..._

When he really, really tries to give them days off from all the running and world-saving and prison-cell-staying, providing he gets his driving right, of course, and when he's not taking her back to Jackie for a visit, he takes her to all _the best_ funfairs and shops and parties and spas and museums and premieres and parks and fireworks and intergalactic balls and restaurants and landmarks and beaches and galleries and quaint little alien marketplaces that the universe has to offer.

They relax and have fun and eat ice cream from Kraxor and Ramsay's caviar and Vellusion custard and Parisian toffee apples and they pretend they can go on pretending that he is totally not taking her on dates that span time and space

(he's ruined her for any other man; who else could woo her like he does? And _without even meaning to, _at that_?)_

_...Especially on Sundays._

When they don't even leave the TARDIS.

_Repairs _is his excuse. _She's an old ship, every week or two she needs some rest..._

_some TLC? _she grins, stroking the console affectionately and by _Rassilon, _he loves her so much it hurts.

_Exactly, _he beams back.

(Neither of them suggest to the other that him and her could use a bit more than tender loving care themselves, but they both think it and hear it anyway.)

The repairs don't often take too long, and he goes off and seeks Rose out from wherever she's hiding or exploring on the TARDIS.

(He finds her in a different room each time, and he wonders how she discovers them all and somehow makes even the ones _he's_ not set foot in for centuries look lived-in and so very hers.)

And when he finds her, it'd be so _easy _to simply take her in his arms and just _kiss_ her...

except it wouldn't be, so he can't.

Oh, he loves her in each season and month and millennium and moment, but it doesn't make the situation simple.

He loves her when she laughs, he loves her when she cries, but it cannot possibly be revealed through language or a press of lips to lips because that's not the way they find comfort in each other, because they can't let themselves go that far.

He loves her when she holds his hand, he loves her when she forgives him, he loves her when she hugs him close, but he can't push his fingers into her hair and haul her mouth to his because they don't do that, they can't do that, they _can't. _

He loves her when they argue and he loves her when she teases him, but he can't shut her up with a snog, because that's going over the rapidly fading line between them.

He loves her when she flushes under his intent gaze and shy, hurried compliments he can't help but give, but it doesn't mean he can tell her _everything_ he wants to say about her.

In fact, it's pretty obvious and evident that he loves her bloody always. And he knows, he _knows, _he always will. But somehow, to preserve all three of their hearts, he's _got_ to stop himself from letting her know that. He's _got _to.

But -

(next Sunday, he doesn't.)

...

_**A/N: So, I've used the word 'love' like 58 times in this fic. Now, doesn't that tell you something about the Doctor and Rose, eh? :D Hope you enjoyed it, **_

_**Love Laura xxx**_

_**P.S. I'll attempt to update my WIPs (The Slow Path, Married?, It's a Wonderful Christmas, etc) in the coming couple of weeks, but things have been so hectic at school that I haven't been able to yet. So hopefully it won't be too long, but please be patient – and I am sorry for making you wait! ;P x**_


	2. It's Sunday, Today

_**It's Sunday, Today**_

Rose stumbles into the console room in her pyjamas, two mugs of tea held expertly in one hand as she rubs at her eyes sleepily with her free one.

He pokes his head out from beneath the console, beaming up at her. "Good morning," he calls cheerfully.

"Morning," she smiles, handing him the mugs before scooting into her place next to him. It's an awkward position, but he likes her company and she doesn't mind the squash if it means she's close to him, so all's well that ends well.

He hands her tea back to her and they both sip, staring at each other over the rims of the mugs but pretending they aren't. Eventually, he breaks her gaze and nods his head towards the wiring in a rueful fashion, before continuing to fiddle and poke about with the sonic screwdriver.

As he tinkers, they talk about nothing in particular, nothing life-changing or important, but before too long they are giggling helplessly, mugs pushed aside and sonic screwdriver forgotten. She's clutching her stomach and trying to stop laughing, her head against his shoulder. He's chuckling loudly into her hair, his arm sneaking out and around her, holding her to him. They can feel the vibrations of one another's laughter against their chests, and it makes them giddy with it.

Then Rose wipes at her eyes and says she needs the loo, so she shuffles out of their cosy position to do just that. Her stomach rumbles loudly as she starts to leave, telling him she's hungry. The Doctor calls out to her that he'll meet her in the kitchen in five minutes, finishing up his repairs for the day. He strokes the console apologetically, silently telling her he's sorry for neglecting her, but needs must; Rose's needs, specifically. And then he makes his way to the kitchen.

He's there first, and so he starts making breakfast. When she comes in a few minutes later, he's already made a plateful of toast, and though she shoots him a look for doing their making-breakfast routine without her, she thanks him gratefully when he hands her a slice.

She takes it between her teeth straight from his fingers, and he momentarily gets lost in the way she bites into the succulent toast, residual butter getting left on her lips so that he aches to lick it off.

He doesn't, though, because she gets there first, sweeping her tongue across her bottom lip, then her top.

He shakes himself out of his daze and starts to eat his own toast. But when she stretches her arms up and he can see the bare skin of her stomach, he jumps up and insists he's really got to change the temporal flux capacitor. Or something.

She blinks into the space he hastily vacates, shrugs to herself, and eats the rest of his toast.

-x-

It's about an hour later when he decides he has _definitely _had enough of fixing things for the day, now. He's been wrestling with his thoughts all morning, but now he's decided to put it all to the back of his mind. Because he misses her, he'll find Rose from whichever room she's disappeared to. Then they'll play a game or watch a film, and he absolutely will stop thinking of her in the way he's been thinking of her. He'll enjoy her companionship, her friendship, and that, he vows to himself, will be enough.

He can't find her for _ages._

But when he does...

It turns out that she's in the hot tub, and his vows quickly disintegrate.

"Alright, Doctor?" she calls, seeing him standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Yep, yes, fine," he blusters, stepping to the room, closer to her, getting a good look.

Her soft, golden hair is swept up in a bun, with random strands fallen out and curling against her cheeks and neck; and she's wearing a purple bikini. He thinks he might just stare at her forever.

"Her TLC done for the day?" she smiles.

"Mmhmm," he agrees distractedly. "I thought we could..."

"What?" she prompts when he trails off.

"Hmm? Oh. Um. Dunno, really. Do something. Watch a film. Or...something," he answers, wincing at his stuttered, ineloquent sentence.

"Why don't you join me in here? Water's lovely," she offers, fiddling with the tub's remote. "I didn't know that it had all these settings, look – the bubbles get stronger, see? It's amazing."

He gapes at her soundlessly.

"Doctor?"

"I don't think...that is, I'm not sure I, um..."

"Oh, come on," she encourages warmly, giggling again. "It's big enough for ten, so there's certainly enough room for two!"

Her laughter is possibly his favourite sound in the universe, and it pulls him towards her like some sort of Siren's call. "Okay," he finds himself saying, as he removes his jacket.

"You actually own swimming trunks then?" she asks curiously, as if she's thought about it and concluded he couldn't possibly own such a garment; not _him._

He pauses his undressing to look at her like she's daft. "Of course I do." He leaves his shirt half-buttoned and walks to a cupboard on the other side of the room; locates his trunks and proceeds to wave them at her triumphantly. "See?"

"Ah, that's good," she replies. He looks at her pointedly and she closes her eyes, mumbling something about how he needn't be self-conscious about getting naked in front of her; she's seen it all already.

"What?" he squeaks indignantly, wondering when she spied on him.

"Well I wasn't gonna let Mum change you into those pyjamas at Christmas, was I?" she retorts, rolling her eyes.

"Ohhhh," he realises, exhaling roughly. "Good."

"Hurry up, then," she urges.

The Doctor does as he's told, and then finally, he's climbing in the hot tub with her.

He sits at the opposite end, and grins at her widely. "This is quite nice, actually."

"See," she grins, tongue poking the corner of her mouth. "Told you."

"So, what do you want to talk about?" he asks her, for something to say that isn't _can I swim over and snog you now, please?_

"Oh, I dunno..." she ponders, closing her eyes and folding her arms behind her head to lean against. The movement angles her chest directly at him and he swallows convulsively as he watches droplets of water slide down her cleavage while she can't tell he's looking. And then she opens her eyes again and he snaps his gaze back to hers. He smiles at her overly-innocently but she narrows her eyes. "You alright?"

"Yeah, of course – why wouldn't I be?" he asks quickly.

"You look like you've done something naughty," she informs him wisely. "You haven't blown up the kitchen again, have you?"

"No!" he exclaims, offended. He sniffs haughtily. "That was _one time, _and the TARDIS has forgiven me for it anyway, so stop going on about it and reminding her."

Rose giggles and, as the hot tub is rather deep, she literally has to swim over to him. He shifts restlessly, unsure how close he can allow her to get if he wants to keep a firm hold on his self-control.

"What have you done, then? Why'd you look so guilty?" she asks.

"I don't," he protests weakly. She's right in front of him now, and he really doesn't mean to but he accidently lets his gaze drop to her chest again.

Rose catches him this time and grins mischievously, before splashing him. He splutters in surprise and splashes her right back. Within seconds they're engaged in a splashing war, laughing as they try and outwit each other with their nefarious tactics. Rose dunks her head under abruptly and he narrows his eyes in confusion, squinting at where she's submerged herself and steadily panicking when she does not rise again.

"Rose..." he murmurs, his volume increasing as he stretches out the syllables of her name. "Rooooose? Rose!"

He moves over to where she was, his hands trying to find her under the water where she's hidden by the relentless bubbles, and then all of a sudden he finds _himself_ tackled under water with a giggling Rose on his back.

"What are you doing!" he exclaims, but his voice his full of mirth and his eyes twinkle up at her as he resurfaces and twists to face her, extending his arm out to hold onto the side of the tub to keep them afloat in the deeper water of the middle.

"Winning the battle!" she announces, tongue touching the corner of her mouth as she grins widely.

He chuckles and they both remain staring at each other for a few moments before they simultaneously realise their precarious positions. In their struggle and the Doctor's subsequent defeat, Rose has now ended up straddled above him with her hands on his shoulders. Upon the aforementioned realisation, Rose scrambles back and sits on the seated bit of the tub, watching him carefully as if waiting for his reaction.

He clears his throat and moves back to his end.

The atmosphere becomes a little bit tense for a second, but then Rose's giggles permeate the silence and the Doctor grins.

"You started it," he murmurs, when she looks like she's going to tell him off.

"How did I?" she laughs.

"Weeeelll. By being you," he answers softly.

"Doctor, you were the one staring at me in my bikini."

"And you're the one wearing it," he counters.

"Don't see me staring at you in your trunks, do you?"

"Well, no, but you want to," he tells her cheekily. "Just so happens that you can't see them from there."

She raises an eyebrow. "Well why don't you stand up and see me not-look at them then, too?" she requests, folding her arms defiantly.

"Fine, I will." He does as she asks and stands up in the tub. Her gaze remains studiously on his face, not once slipping lower. "Right, well. There's an explanation for that," he decides.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep. You said it yourself, earlier. _You _have already seen me naked. This is nothing special for you. You can't exactly blame me for wanting you to return the favour," he says. His eyes widen when he realises how suggestively he'd phrased that. "I mean, not that I _do _want you to, er..."

Rose's smile turns deliciously wicked, and she too stands up. "No?"

He swallows hard. "Nope."

She shrugs and says casually, "I will, though. If it makes you feel less embarrassed about me seeing you naked."

His mouth opens and closes for a few seconds wordlessly. When she realises he's too speechless to reply, she does something very, very spontaneous and probably something she'll regret later, but she just can't help it. She thinks it'll be funny to see how he reacts.

She takes off her bikini top. She throws it to him.

The Doctor catches it, and instantly sits back down in the water. Trying to act nonchalant, he tosses it over his shoulder and watches her as she puts her hands on her hips as if to say _oi. _The devilish glint in her eyes excites him but terrifies him. He remembers vaguely that he vowed not to do this, not to even entertain the ideas running through his mind right now concerning Rose anymore, but he simply can't adhere to such a vow when she is standing, submerged to the waist, right in front of him,_ topless_. He wants, so very much, to be the droplets of water cascading down her breasts right now. He shakes his head at himself. No. No, he doesn't.

He'll settle for catching them with his tongue.

"Doctor?" she coughs pointedly, sensing that he's got lost in a little daydream.

His eyes travel back up to hers the slow way. "Yeah?" he answers breathlessly.

He watches as she reaches her hand beneath the water and bends slightly. She looks like she's stepping out of her –

His thought process derails once more when she chucks her bikini bottoms in his direction. He doesn't manage to react quick enough to catch them, this time. They land right in front of him, half-sinking into the water, and he stares at them in shock.

He's really not sure what to say. He's just _very _glad she can't see past the bubbles of the hot tub to what she's doing to his biological reactions. Namely, causing them.

"Rose?" he murmurs hoarsely.

"Yeah, Doctor?" she grins teasingly.

"I..." he trails off. All the reasons why it's a bad idea shut off in his brain, and he gestures to her lower body as he says, "Water's in the way."

"Oh yeah," she mock-realises. "Well that's not fair." She stands up on her tiptoes just a tiny fraction, and her hips become exposed at the surface of the water.

The Doctor gulps, realising suddenly that if she reveals much more he's likely to spontaneously combust. "Rose, maybe we should - " he cuts himself off abruptly when she moves towards him. "Rose?"

Her gaze twinkles at him and before he has a chance to push her away, she sits on his lap.

"Rose!" he gasps.

"What?" she giggles.

"You're – you're...you're sitting in my lap and you're naked," he stammers out.

"So I am," she replies. "And you...you're not pushing me off."

The Doctor gulps. "No, I'm not, am I?"

"Nope. In fact..." She shifts herself a bit, revelling in the way he squeezes his eyes shut tightly and lets out a long sigh. "...I'd go so far to say as _you like it."_

"Maybe you're right," he acquiesces. His hands come up to rest at her hips, pulling her more firmly against him, and then he opens his eyes, staring into hers. "That okay with you?"

"Oh yeah," she assures him, leaning forward. She loops her arms around his neck. "Doctor."

"Yeah?"

"You gonna let me kiss you, too?" she grins.

"I'm counting on it," he answers. His fingers dance across her ribcage. "In fact - "

The Doctor doesn't usually like being interrupted. But considering it's Rose that's doing the interrupting, and doing so in a very pleasing way, he decides to love it instead. Just like he loves the feel of her mouth on his. Just like he loves the taste of her lips. Just like he loves her.

"Rose," he murmurs, as she breaks the kiss to breathe.

"Yes, Doctor?" she smiles lazily, running her fingers through his hair.

"You've got absolutely no idea how much you mean to me," he whispers.

"Course I do," she dismisses absently, nuzzling his jaw line. "Best friends, yeah?"

He gathers her closer, smiling into her bare shoulder as he lets his lips touch her skin. "Oh, so much more than that, Rose Tyler." He pauses to kiss his way up her neck. "So much more."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he assures her firmly. His hands cup her face, tilting her head to look at him. "Rose. I can't ignore what I feel for you anymore."

"Then don't," she murmurs, playfully bumping his nose with hers.

"But I love you," he whispers, sounding so very, very scared. He hears her breath hitch but ploughs on, "And that frightens me, because...because I'll lose you, someday. And I know all this is so complicated, and that we're supposed to be just friends, and I'm supposed to keep all this to myself, but I can't anymore, Rose. I just can't."

She's quiet for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say.

And then she repeats her words from just now, "Then don't."

And that's the all the agreement he needs before he kisses her again.


End file.
